THE PRINCE HAS SCALED THE FENCE AGAIN

(Claire Harrington's POV)

"Ms. Harrington, my deepest condolences. Your mother's legacy, complicated as it may be, will not be forgotten." A voice, low and thick with a blend of pity and professional detachment, sliced through the stillness.

Claire Harrington, dressed in mournful black, wiped away a tear she was not aware existed and gave a strained thank you. The scene was the Ashford City Cemetery, the mood thick with the subdued, almost triumphant gloom that follows in the path of a giant's demise.

It was a month now since the fall of Harrington Enterprises, the powerful media giant her mother, Eleanor Harrington, had ruled with an iron fist. The company-and Eleanor's life-had ended not in silent death but in a firestorm of public scandal, investigative lawsuits, and a fatal heart attack widely rumored to be stress-induced. The honored Harrington family name was no more, replaced by front-page tales of corruption and ruthless manipulation.

Yet despite all the downfall, the guests-a mix of media aristocracy, restless reporters, and political number crunchers-could not bring themselves to count Claire out completely. Not only was she Eleanor's fallen daughter; she was also the estranged wife of Adrian Blackwood, the cold, calculating CEO of the Blackwood Corporation, who now dominated the digital media kingdom her mother used to preside over.

The funeral was coming to an end at about noon, and everyone's eyes still darted towards the door. Adrian Blackwood was conspicuous by his absence. As final prayers were being muttered, a glossy black Bentley silently pulled up to the curb.

The back door opened, and two immaculately polished leather shoes appeared, surmounted by a flawlessly tailored suit. Adrian Blackwood emerged, his handsome, sharp-featured face utterly unwarm. Claire had not set eyes on him in the two years of their nominal marriage. The irony was a bitter pill: the reason for it was the funeral of the woman whose transgressions had bound them together.

All the visitors had come with flowers or a wreath. Adrian came empty-handed.

Adrian," a soft, syrupy voice rang out. Another car door opened, and a heart-stoppingly gorgeous woman in a bright, gaudily inappropriate red cocktail dress stepped out. Adrian's lover and reputed fiancée from Monroe Holdings, Felicity Monroe, slipped her arm easily through his. "Do I need to go in and pay my respects to. the late Mrs. Harrington?" she asked, her voice somewhat teasing.

Adrian's face eased infinitesimally as he looked down at Felicity, a fleeting warmth that was a punch in the stomach to Claire. He prudently took his arm away. "Wait here for me. It will not take long."

"Of course, darling." Felicity smiled, stood on tiptoes, and left a quick, intimate kiss on his cheek.

The silent, watching crowd was the final judge. On the morning when her mother was laid to rest, in front of a crowd of judgmental social media influencers, her husband was not only late but was also with his mistress, who had deliberately dressed in the color of scandal.

Claire dug her nails into her palm, struggling against her composure breaking. Adrian was already stepping closer to her, his presence a dark, stifling shadow.

He stopped, his height causing him to tower well above her. His cold eyes finally locked onto hers after a long, deliberate moment of tense silence. "Long time no see, Mrs. Blackwood," he sneered, his voice a low, cutting rasp. "Or has the great Harrington fire been struck dumb with shock? Where is the legendary spark?"

"What do you want, Adrian?" Claire managed, the words rough and strained. She knew very well he was not there for closure.

"What do I want?" His mouth curled into a predatory smile that failed to reach his eyes. "I just stopped by to offer my respects to my distinguished mother-in-law." His eyes were colder than a winter broadcast.

He took her in-prettier, perhaps, than the bride he'd acquired, her dark hair spilling over the black dress like a waterfall. If only she were not the daughter of my enemy, an enemy who used her media empire to ruin my family's reputation, things might be different, his mind whispered, a quickly discarded thought. No. This wedding was a revenge pact.

He looked away, his voice cracking with sudden authority. "All of you. Leave us. Now."

No one in the room had the nerve to defy the CEO of the Blackwood Corporation. They quickly scattered, and the hall was silent but for the two of them.

Before Claire could utter another word, a burning, stabbing pain erupted on her wrist. Adrian's grip was vice-like, and he forcefully dragged her away from the crowd, through a side door, and into a small, private committal room. The heavy wood door thudded shut behind them.

(Adrian Blackwood's POV)

An hour later, Adrian adjusted his perfectly tailored suit jacket, his face utterly expressionless as he emerged from the room.

Felicity Monroe rushed to him immediately, her face etched with nervous curiosity, and grasped his hand. "Adrian, darling, how did it go? Has the... trouble that was required been attended to?"

"Yes," said Adrian, his voice impassive. He accepted her hand and went down the stairs, dismissing the meeting with a few final, terrifying words. "It's all over."

Felicity, sensing the anger that was hardly contained beneath his calm demeanor, did not dare press any further. She just gazed back at the silent building with a lingering, analytical terror.

(Claire Harrington's POV)

Inside the room, Claire mechanically smoothed out her dress. Her eyes were riveted on the black-and-white photo of her mother. The jeering words Adrian had hurled at her during that violent, private war echoed in her mind:

"I married you just to have my full revenge on your disgusting mother for the lies she spouted, the reputations she destroyed, and the public smear campaign that ruined my family. Now she's finally dead. You are the only one left to pay her debts, starting with your complete public ruin."

"Mother, I'm so sorry," Claire whispered, sinking to her knees, the tears finally flowing freely.

The next day, the news cycle did not slow down. The fall of the Harrington media empire was already old news. Another headline, screaming from every digital billboard and morning paper, immediately became the top trending topic:

"Blackwood CEO Adrian Blackwood to Marry Monroe Holdings Heiress Felicity Monroe-Divorce from Disgraced Harrington Daughter Finalized?"

Before Claire could awaken from the stupor of shame and grief, a band of strangers broke into the ancestral Harrington villa, systematically emptying it of all its furniture.

The uproar drew her downstairs. Lisa, the veteran housekeeper, rushed to her in distress. "Mrs. Blackwood! They just pushed in and started taking things! They won't say who sent them!"

Claire stopped one of the men struggling with an old bronze statue-a gift her mother proudly claimed to have received from a political friend. "What do you think you're doing? I'll have you called by the police and sued for trespassing."

"Trespassing?" The man scoffed, completely unimpressed. "We're working for Mr. Blackwood. He does own this estate. We were instructed to take everything. Sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Harrington."

Claire's blood went cold. She had all but forgotten. When her mother had bought this house for the wedding, a vote of confidence, Claire had made her put it in Adrian's name, a misplaced vote of trust.